


When the rivers overrun

by SolainRhyo



Series: Becoming Boone [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Trespasser ending, Angst, Boone from The Unwritten End, F/M, Longing, Sex and guilt, Solas makes a terrible choice, doubts, impossible love, moral condemnation, solas is a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 20:32:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17189915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolainRhyo/pseuds/SolainRhyo
Summary: When the Inquisitor's fate lies in Solas' hands, he makes yet another unforgivable decision.(This is an AU companion piece to my main Solavelyan fic,The Unwritten End.)





	When the rivers overrun

**Author's Note:**

> While this is meant as a standalone piece, it includes my Trevelyan Inquisitor, Boone, who is featured at length in [Boon of the First Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13123470) and [The Unwritten End](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5890594/chapters/13577002).

  
  
**.x.**

They face each other in the world between worlds, elf and human, villain and hero. She is still the Inquisitor, though that title now hangs by a political thread. He is the Dread Wolf, elvhen god risen from eons of relative obscurity to alter the course of the world. There is more between them than the obvious conflict. There is a mutual history of words exchanged and smiles shared, of attraction and fascination and companionship. There is a word for it all, a word they have never dared to voice aloud, a word that could undo them both. It is the meaning of that word that keeps them from attacking each other now, for they _are_ enemies by definition – she leads the Inquisition in an effort to keep the world from breaking; he seeks to tear it apart.

She did not know, years ago, who he really was. He had taken great pains to ensure that she never would. She knows now. And it is unfathomable to her to think that this man standing before her looking so imperious and indomitable was once a man she had considered both confidante and friend. After all that has transpired, after all she has endured, it is this final betrayal that wounds her to the quick. She is unaware that her hand has fisted over her heart as he has spoken to her of his intentions, perhaps in an effort to ward off the piercing pain she feels there. The other arm, blackened to the elbow, hangs limp at her side.

“You have decisions to make now,” he tells her, and his voice is the only sound in the great stillness surrounding them.

Her lip twists. She is riven with these words. He can see it as surely as she feels it. She shuts her eyes tightly, willing Time to unravel itself and remove her from here, to insert her into another life, another story that doesn’t end this way. When she opens her eyes again they are wet, glistening, and she doesn’t know that in this moment he is thinking that even now, even like this, she is the most achingly beautiful creature he has ever seen.

She doesn't know that his resolve is wavering.

She doesn't know that he still tastes her on his lips.

She doesn't know that he fervently wishes he was a weaker man.

She takes one faltering step backward, and then another. Finally, with a defeated shake of her head she turns, unable to face him any longer.

“Return me.” she says lifelessly. “Send me back.”

And he should. But he finds then that he is incapable of doing so, because if he does it will be the last time they meet as anything other than the bitterest of adversaries. Somewhere in the future written for them both the Inquisitor and Fen’Harel will clash on a battlefield not yet determined and it will be a conflict from which only one will survive. Fen’Harel knows who that victor will be. He has known all along, since the moment he laid eyes upon her lying unconscious on the floor of the Haven chantry, the Anchor freshly embedded within her palm. It was why he could not love her, this human woman who had the grave misfortune of being the recipient of his magic. It was why he _did_ love her, this mortal who wielded her power with more grace and wisdom than he had dared to ever expect, who had molded the Inquisition into a tool of compassionate righteousness rather than an army meant to subjugate and conquer.

He has been too silent now for too long and she looks at him over her shoulder. It is the sight of her eyes – those lovely russet eyes, spilling tears born from the devastation his truth has caused –  that divert the course of his meticulously laid plans. He has accounted for every possibility, every eventuality, every certainty except for _her._ There is an idea that he has harbored for a long time now, a concept that he kept at bay for fear of realizing it further. It is to this idea he turns to now.

The Inquisitor is facing him, confused by his inaction. “Send me back.” she says again.

And rebelling against every bit of rational thought he possesses, he replies, “No.”

He approaches. She is helpless against him, the Anchor nullified by his power. She retreats, afraid because this is not the confrontation she had expected. Her bow lies on the ground some several feet away, useless in its distance, useless too because she now lacks both hands. There is a dagger riding at her hip and it is unsheathed quickly, held out before her in a defensive gesture that they both know is futile, for he is Fen’Harel. He is a god.

He stops so close that the tip of her dagger pricks the wolf pelt he wears over one shoulder. His eyes are on the blade but flick to her face.

She says in a voice that is far steadier than it should be, “So it’s to be death, then.”

“No.”

She stares at him and he watches as her thoughts flow over her expressive face. She is envisioning what other grim fate awaits her, subject now as she is to the whim of the Dread Wolf. Nothing she could guess will ever come close to the truth.

He reaches for her. She reacts instinctively, dagger flying toward his throat. His eyes flare white and she is rendered immobile, unable to move, unable to speak, unable even to blink.

“Death may have been a kinder fate,” he tells her, and there’s a catch in his voice as he speaks. He steps nearer, wrapping an arm around her waist. He touches two fingers to her forehead and she collapses, willed into arcane slumber. She is cradled in his arms and he turns, carrying her toward the eluvian that awaits not far off. He pauses before the mirror, finding himself beset my doubts he does not care to have, by powerful emotions concerning the Inquisitor that he had done his best to wall away. That wall has effectively crumbled and there is no rebuilding it now; there is only the woman in his arms and the future he has devised. There are only certainties and absolutes and they will no longer be denied.

He steps through the eluvian.

**.x.**

She cannot remember her name.

It has escaped her as surely as her memories have. There are things she can recall with perfect clarity - growing up on a large estate in Ostwick. Having a brother. Having a father and a mother. Learning, and subsequently loving, to write and to read. Words are something she feels most strongly connected to, and she clings to them when _he_ comes to visit, uses them to try and remember, to try and feel grounded in this foreign, detached reality she finds herself in.

“What is my name?” she asks him, and wonders if it is the first time she’s posed that question.

He does not answer immediately. He is standing near the large window in what she has been told is her room, large and rectangular and made of white stone. He does not look at her often; indeed, doing so seems to make him uncomfortable.

“Your name is Boone,” he says finally.

“And you are?”

“Solas.” He turns, hands flat against the stone of the wall. It almost seems as though he is bracing himself and she wonders, _is he frightened of me? Have I disturbed him so?_

“What are you to me, Solas?” It seems a reasonable question, considering the situation.

He averts his eyes. It almost seems like a wince. He doesn’t speak and his silence bothers her, propels her to her feet. She paces a line away from the bed she’d been seated on toward the hearth in the wall opposite. There is a fire burning there, low about the embers. It has been burning for as long as she can remember, since she first opened her eyes to find herself here. But where is here?

“Are you a friend?” she asks into the stillness. She stands silhouetted by the fire, her hands clasped before her. She is wringing them, though she is unaware of it. Something about this place, this man, this elf, unsettles her greatly, though she thinks perhaps she is being foolish. She has not been harmed. She has not been treated unkindly. She is being protected, or so she has been told. She thinks perhaps it is Solas that said those words to her once before. It is befuddling, how certain pieces of memory seem so reluctant to remain with her while others fragments stay. It is names and identity that constantly drift away. She can hardly remember who he is. It is harder still to recall her own self.

“I was a friend once,” he says. He has managed to bring himself to look upon her and she is struck by how saddened he seems.  It makes her want to offer words of comfort, but she thinks perhaps she does not know him well enough to make that gesture yet.

“Once? What are you now?”

He shakes his head, closing his eyes. She watches as his expression contorts, as what she thinks might be shame ripples across his face. “Solas?” she softly ventures.

“I’m your protector,” he says, eyes opening and fixing upon her. “I will keep you safe.”

“From what?” Her voice has risen. She is alarmed, understandably so. “What am I in danger from? _Why_ can’t I remember? What is this place?”

She is breathing fast. Echoes of voices and thoughts hammer at her mind, demanding her attention with such force that she clutches at her head. She tries to focus on them, to separate them, to cling to one and disentangle it until it leads her back to a world where she understands and doesn’t question. There is a great anxiety rising within her, constricting her throat so that her breath comes in forced gasps. _Something_ is telling her to be scared and she _is_ terrified, but of _what_ she cannot remember _._

“Boone.” And he is there, her protector, his fingers about her wrists, pulling her hands away from her head. She looks at him pleadingly, begging him for anything that can make things feel _right_ again. There is such distress in his face as he looks at her and she thinks it must be because of her past, because of what unnamed danger hunts her, because of all the unknown events that have led to her being here.

“I’m afraid,” she admits in a tremulous whisper, “but why? _Why?_ Can you tell me?”

He shakes his head once. He draws nearer, arms going about her to pull her into an embrace. It is precisely the comfort she needs and after a moment she lays her head on his shoulder. She feels safe. He has spoken the truth. He will protect her. He will keep her from harm.

“Tell me why I’m here,” she whispers against the fabric of his shirt.

“You’re in danger everywhere else,” he replies just as quietly.

“From what? From whom?”

But Solas will not say. She feels his hand against her hair, stroking, and the pain in her head gradually recedes. It is easier then to listen to his words, low and gentle and lulling. It is easier to begin to forget again.

**.x.**

Days pass. How many, she can’t be sure. She marks them by the sunrises she views through the window as she lay in her bed. Solas visits often, but not every day. Sometimes he is absent at length. It worries her when he is away, and in some inexplicable way it troubles her that she’s worried. When he’s gone, she feels as though she is at war with herself. The reality she is presented with is perpetually at odds at the missing parts of her memory. She is not whole – she can _feel_ it. It terrifies her to think that she may be fractured like this for the rest of her life.

One day it occurs to her to be curious about her left arm. It is not made of flesh and blood. From elbow to fingertips it is a construct, carved from ivory wood with such intricate attention to detail as to astound the eye. It is not _wooden_ , though – it articulates as a real arm might, allowing her full range of movement and reach. It certainly feels as though it has always been a part of her, and perhaps that is why in her first days in this place, overwhelmed by the gaps in her memory, it warranted less attention than it should have.

She asks Solas about her arm the next time he visits. As her question hangs in the air his eyes slide sideways to focus on something just beyond her shoulder. He still finds it difficult to meet her gaze.

“It was taken from you,” he says in answer to her inquiry about how she came to be missing most of her arm.

“How?” She feels like a child, asking him so many questions. She is concerned that he will tire of it eventually.

“Through magic,” he responds. “Another’s magic. It was an unfortunate accident.”

“And this?” she queried, raising the limb in question. “Did you give this to me?”

“Yes.” It's almost a sigh. He lowers his gaze and it is a long time before he lifts his head to look at her again.

She is confused by his reactions to her questions, by her very presence. At time she is certain he would rather be anywhere else, doing anything else other than interacting with her. Other times she catches him gazing at her and there is such _need_ in that look, such longing that she finds her heart stuttering in her chest. She wishes to ask him about it but cannot bring herself to for reasons that she does not fully comprehend – like her memories, they are wisps on tempest winds.

“Thank you,” she offers with a little trepidation. One of his eyebrow lifts. She clarifies, “for the arm. For keeping me safe.”

He whirls away from her, uttering a sound that could have been a laugh were it not for the caustic, bitter edge it carried. “Do not thank me,” he cautions her as he turns back around, his voice nothing more than a grating rasp, “not for this. Never for this.”

And he leaves, stepping out the door and letting it slam behind him, leaving her to stare after him, utterly perplexed.

**.x.**

She is offered freedom eventually, though it’s been made clear she’s not a prisoner. Or is she? She is never entirely certain. The world around her is ever fickle, presenting her with one thing while obscuring the other. Solas allows her to leave her room and the small house it is attached to as long as she is accompanied by his commander, an elf named Abelas. Abelas is of a steely demeanour, always armored and always hooded, his face typically an impassive mask. He speaks very little and when he does, it is only in Elvhen. He is a rather imposing figure, but one Solas assures her will keep her safe.

And so she is able to wander a little, to explore this place that is for now home. Outside the four walls she has previously been restricted to there is a great deal of beauty. There are soaring mountain peaks that cradle this valley. There are trees with white bark and pale blue-green foliage. There are small creeks that meander through the valley floor, their waters clear and refreshingly cold to taste. She walks for hours each day, Abelas a silent companion trailing no more than a few steps behind. At first he unnerves her. Gradually he becomes another strange normality. At times she wishes she could speak with him, but the language barrier is for now insurmountable and she suspects he prefers it that way. He will acknowledge her greetings and farewells with a nod of his head and he will pay her attention if she says his name, and she supposes for now that is good enough.

There are times, though, when he looks at her and he is not quick enough to mask his expression. He regards her with something very akin to pity and it shakes her to see it. What does he know that she does not? What truths is he privy to that her memory keeps at bay? She wants to ask. Some days she works up the courage to do so. But she knows how he will react, this austere ehlven soldier. He will give her no answers, and nothing will change.

**.x.**

In time, Solas becomes more comfortable around her. He stays with her for longer. He is able to meet her eyes without constantly looking away. It is an improvement that heartens here as much as it bewilders her.

He brings her books to read, many of them, and parchment and writing implements. Her hand itches at the sight of the quill and the inkhorn and suddenly she is seized with the urge to write, to feel the quill as it scratches the paper, to watch the elegant flow of black ink as she writes. Solas seems pleased with her eager acceptance of the gift, granting her a rare smile. The way it transforms his face is striking, and she studies him intently for a long moment. His smile is familiar, nearly overwhelmingly so, and she feels that pain again as her thoughts start to roil, as something nettles at her mind incessantly, commanding her attention–

“Boone,” Solas murmurs, and his hand cups her cheek. She is unable to keep herself from leaning into his touch, comforting as it is. The ache in her head subsides. Her lips curve faintly and her artificial hand rises to cover his. She is grateful for all he does and all he has done. A little hesitant, she tells him so, recalling the last time she thanked him. He does not react as she half-feared he would, instead drawing closer. His hand is still on her cheek and she nuzzles into his palm, spurred on by urges only half realized but powerfully compelling. His eyes darken as closes the distance between them and she catches her breath at what she sees reflected in them, feels her face suffuse with heat as he lowers his head –

“I must go,” he tells her huskily, reluctance coating every word. Stung by more than just the rejection, she nods her understanding and averts her face, willing the flush to fade. She feels his hand on her shoulder, squeezing, and then he steps past her and is gone.

Alone in her room, she realizes for the first time that danger lurks within as well as without.

**.x.**

She falls ill, plagued by incessant, debilitating headaches to the point where she is unable to rise from her bed. Captive to fever dreams she drifts and is assailed by voices she once knew, voices that hiss sibilant threats that she cannot decipher no matter how hard she tries. Among those voices she thinks she hears her own and it is not speaking – it is screaming, a tortured wavering wail that carries a warning imperative to her own survival. She can _see_ it and  reaches for its writhing tendrils, attempting to grasp it with her fingers in order to give it substance. Her fingers close on nothing; her breath leaves her in a tattered, dismayed exhale.

She hears her name

– _but is it really her name? –_

and turns her head to find Solas seated at her bedside. She blinks once, twice, willing the haze to fade from her vision, feeling sweat-damp strands of hair against the nape of her neck. She feels exhausted and weak, too insubstantial to do anything more than breathe.

“A waking dream.” she says unsteadily.

“I think so.” Solas is gently applying a cool damp cloth to her brow. She closes her eyes at the relief it offers, but opens them again moments later. The voices still persist.

“What are they telling me?”

She doesn’t realize she has spoken out loud until Solas responds with a question. “Who?”

She looks up at him. “The voices. They’re growing so loud. They frighten me."

There is a flicker of something in his eyes, a shadow she glimpses but it is too soon gone. He brushes strands of hair away from her cheek. “It is the fever,” he tells her.

“It’s more than that,” she disagrees, but is far too tired to bolster her argument. The weariness that has entwined itself throughout her will no longer be denied, but she struggles against it for a few more moments. She says, softly vulnerable, “Don’t leave me, Solas.”

His smile is faint and sad. “I will never leave you. Rest now. I’ll be here when you wake.”

**.x.**

Days or weeks later he stands in her doorway, clad in armor with the pelt of a wolf fastened over one shoulder. He has paused there and she tilts her head inquiringly. It is then she sees the red that stains the burnished shine of his breastplate, sees the thin ribbon of blood decorating his cheek. She is out of her chair instantly, hastening to him in concern.

“What happened?” she asks.

“It is done.” His voice is grim, toneless. It frightens her. He crosses the threshold and his knees buckle; it is all she can do to catch him before he topples to the floor. She slips her arm under his, across his back, inviting him to lean upon her. He does, resting his head on her shoulder, the two of them kneeling before the open door.

“What is done?” He does not answer, head still bowed. “Solas?” she whispers.

He stirs, one hand fisting in the collar of her dress. “I must rest,” he sighs.

Slowly, carefully, she is able to help him get to his feet. She supports him as they cross the floor, until they reach her bed. She eases him down upon it, her eyes searching for any visible sign of injury. The blood on the armor likely belonged to someone or something else. The only physical wound she can see is the cut on his cheek.

“I will find Abelas,” she says, rising.

“No.” His fingers are fastened about her wrist, anchoring her. She looks down upon him in alarm. “There is no need for Abelas.”

“But–”

“I need _you._ ”

Her heart misbehaves. “I am here.” she whispers.

“Closer,” he says, and pulls her down to him, until she sits on the edge of the bed. Still he is not satisfied, and he moves until there is space for her beside him. With his hand still fastened about her wrist he tugs until she lies next to him, facing him. His eyes find hers and hold them and there is so much within them that she cannot fathom, so much within them she wishes she could understand. His hand releases her wrist and slides up her arm, over her shoulder, until his fingers curl around the back of her neck. When he kisses her it is achingly gentle, his lips grazing hers so fleetingly she wonders if it ever happened at all.

She waits, breath held, to see if he will kiss her again. He doesn’t. His eyes are closed. His chest rises and falls in a sleeper’s rhythm, but his hand still cups her neck. She moves carefully, attempting to extricate herself, but even in slumber he won’t allow it. She resigns herself to a night spent this way, certain that given the erratic way her heart is beating, sleep will never happen. But it does.

He is the first thing she sees when she wakes. He has not moved in the hours past but to open his eyes. They are observing her and likely have been observing her for quite some time. Color floods into her face  as she recalls his kiss. His thumb caresses the elegant line of her jaw. The wound on his cheek is nearly healed, almost faded. They remain thus for a long time, his touch so soothing as to almost lull her back into sleep. Her eyes flutter closed; they open again when he whispers her name.

His kiss is less gentle this time, less fleeting. His mouth is insistent against hers, coaxing slowly until her lips part and his tongue delves against her own. She is overcome, thoughts flying and heart racing. His hand goes around her waist and pulls her closer, ever closer. Her hands are on his chest, the metal of his breastplate cool beneath her fingers. _Solas_ , she thinks as he kisses her more deeply, until she fears he will never relent.

He does, a long while later. He raises his head and looks down at her, his breath hitching with every inhale. She can’t decipher his expression and it troubles her – she has no idea at this point just exactly what she is meant to do. She feels awkward, as though she has committed some vague transgression.

“Are you–” she begins to ask, but halts in surprise as he suddenly moves, sitting up and carefully lifting himself over her body and off the bed. He stands and she looks up at him, saying in absolute confusion, “I’ll go, if you need more time to rest.”

He shakes his head but says nothing, not until she sits up as well. “You’ve done nothing wrong,” he tells her tightly. “The fault is all my own.”

 She watches, frowning in consternation as he walks to the table upon which her books and parchment lay. He pauses there, head bowed, and it is apparent that he is waging some manner of internal struggle. About what, she has no idea. She is not surprised when he leaves abruptly – disappointed, but not surprised. She lies down again, curling up on her side, and wonders at the ardor with which he’d kissed her and the delicate way he’d graced her with his touch. There is something between them and she has known it for a while, but for how long exactly? How long has she craved him like this? And for how long has he longed for her?

A stinging ache burgeons to life behind her temples, as though her mind protests the questions her thoughts have her presented her with. She covers her eyes with one hand and wills the pain to fade, the doubts to retreat, and the world to right itself again.

**.x.**

Sometimes Solas walks with her through the valley. His presence has begun to disconcert her as much as it reassures her and it’s a dissonance that she is constantly at odds with. Since the kiss he’s treated her with nothing but respect and kindness, but he keeps himself aloof. It hurts her, this distance he puts between them, and she thinks he knows it. Often when he regards her there is something of remorse and desolation in his countenance, and she comes so very close to asking him what it is about her that perturbs him so. She knows she will get no straight answer from him; she never does in matters like this.

Walking through the woods one day, she is lost deep in thought, almost forgetting where she is, almost forgetting that he is with her. Since they crossed into the forest there has been a nameless uncertainty niggling at her, clamoring like a pouting child for her attention. It is a memory, she thinks, a memory on the brink of resurfacing. It brings with it the echoes of discussions she knows she’s heard before and she fights to be able to hear them clearly. So focused is she on this that she stumbles over a piece of moss-covered deadfall. Solas’ arm around her waist keeps her from falling. She mumbles her thanks, brows furrowed as she looks at him, wondering if the nebulous voice she keeps hearing is his.

“What is it?” he asks in concern.

She wants to tell him, she does, but she is beset then by a sudden thrill of foreboding. “It’s nothing,” she says, and steps out of his hold. “A headache.”

He is not so easily dissuaded. He keeps pace with her as she begins to walk, proceeding carefully to keep from falling again. “For how long?”

“Not long,” she replies, and it is the truth. The pain in her head has only just manifested itself, accompanying the unclear voices as it always does.

“Boone.” He catches her hand with his, tugging her to a halt. It is a simple action, a harmless thing, but it fills her with inexplicable agitation. She stares at him as the ruckus in her head grows ever louder, nearly deafening, and finds that her anxiety has abruptly transformed into dread. She pulls against his hold; surprised, he relinquishes his grip.

 _Why do I sometimes fear you?_ she wants to demand of him. _And why do I fear where my thoughts wander when I’m with you?_

She thinks maybe she has unthinkingly spoken these questions aloud but no, she’s said nothing. Maybe he’s able to read her silent inquiries in way she tilts her head, in the way her eyes widen slightly. Or maybe, she finds herself thinking as he closes the distance between them, he has insight her pattern of thinking – yet another uncertain thing she should or should not fear. The aching in her head intensifies as he draws near; she lifts a hand to her forehead in a futile effort to make it go away.

“I _need_ to remember,” she says to him. She holds out one hand, palm up, a gesture meant to implore. He takes her hand, his fingers twining with hers.

“I know,” he says with great sympathy and understanding. “I know.”

“Will you help me?”

He’s close enough to be able to reach up with his other hand, ghosting the backs of his knuckles over her cheek. His touch is an immediate balm to the throbbing in her head; it recedes in a swift tide. His voice is entirely earnest as he responds, “I will do everything I can.”

She believes him.

**.x.**

It happens eventually that he is unable to visit for a great many days. Abelas is gone too. In their stead is another elf, an older woman who simply appears at the house one morning. She will say nothing of the men’s absence other than they are embroiled in a war. She is non-responsive to any other questions. She and Boone co-exist at the house as complete strangers. It troubles Boone like so many other things.

With Solas’ absence the headaches become more frequent. Sometimes they are mild enough that she can determinedly ignore them for hours at a time. Other days they feel as though they will consume her, preventing her from doing much else other than sitting in a chair before the fire. It feels to her like her lost memories are flocking to her as a horde but are unable to penetrate some unforeseen, unfathomable barrier that has been erected with the sole purpose of keeping them at bay. It is a cruel, cyclical process – often she becomes aware of who has done this to her, but it is an integral measure of the intricate sorcery afflicting her that this particular truth remain forever elusive. Realization dawns and slips away before she is ever able to acknowledge it, and she lives unknowing of just how close she comes repeatedly to understanding what has happened.

She divides her time every day between walking, reading, and writing. Exploring the valley never ceases to fascinate her, as it seems like certain aspects of it change on a day to day basis. She reads sometimes, when the weather is poor. It is at night, by the illumination of a candle, when she writes. She is adept at it, or at least she thinks she is. Words and phrasing come easily to her. Given the state of her memory there is not much left to her to write other than the occurrences of her daily existence, and so she begins keeping a record of everything she experiences. Not exactly riveting material, but it is a process she finds cathartic.

It is evening, many weeks later, when Solas comes to her again. She is already abed, reading. There is a singular knock at the door and she lays the book down on her lap, knowing who stands without. There are many reasons she hesitates to call out, all of them too deeply rooted for her to fully examine. When she bids him answer her voice sounds thin. She hopes he will not notice.

He is dressed for war. As before blood has painted his armor in artless, arbitrary strokes. He seems unharmed and yet somehow unsteady, as he makes his way across the room to stand before her bed. This close, his handsome face painted in the lantern’s glow, she realizes he seems stricken.

“Solas?” she asks, unsettled. It is a moment before he sinks down to sit on the bed beside her. He does not look at her, his eyes focused on the floor at his feet. Long moments later he bows his head, resting it in his hands.

“I have killed often of late. Too many. Far too many. Men and women that I knew, that I respected, that I–” Here his voice breaks. Boone, aching for him, lays her hand upon his arm. He doesn’t move.

“I thought… I thought I could endure this unscathed. I thought I had hardened myself enough. It’s war, and war is fraught with casualties. I knew I would face them eventually but I was not prepared for this – _this_ …” He makes a sound that is very much like a laugh, save for how utterly miserable it is. “They are slain by my hand and I regret it.”

“Is that so strange?”

“Yes.” He twists his head to look at her and guilt has ravaged his face. He looks aged, unsure, broken. “Everything is strange of late. My thoughts. My actions. You.”

She is taken aback. “Me?”

“You most of all,” he whispers, and he is moving, reaching for her. His fingers thread through the unbound lengths of her hair and tighten just enough to hold her captive. “You cannot know what you are to me. You are my one constant. You have been for years. But you are a reminder too of other things, of unspeakable things, and it _pains_ me to look at you… and I cannot help but look at you. I cannot help but touch you.”

His throat moves, his mouth opens, and it seems as though he will speak her name. She is unnervingly certain that whatever name is to fall from his lips will not be ‘Boone’ _._ He forcibly swallows the word, unwilling to share it. When he does speak again his face is much closer to hers and every word he utters is a warm exhale flowing across her lips.

“You will undo me. I fear I am already undone.” He pauses, closing his eyes as though in resignation.  “And I welcome it.”

His kiss is abrupt and fierce, his tongue plundering her mouth and there is no inclination in her to fight – indeed, she rides the only urge she has which is to cling to him and tilt her head and part her lips even more. It is the kind of submission he craves from her and his fingers tighten in her hair again, holding her head completely still as his lips ravage hers with bruising force. She has wanted this from him for a very long time, though in truth she has no idea just how long. She tells him this when the kiss finally breaks, her words carried on a breathy exhale. His reaction startles her; he clutches her to him, holding her so tightly it is almost uncomfortable. There is a desperation to his embrace, an unspoken yearning that renders him temporarily incapable of doing anything but holding her like this, just like this. There is a sense of completion in the way his arms clutch her so tight against him and she lets it wash over her. Completion is something she has been seeking since the day she awoke here.

It is a long while later when he looses her, drawing away. She lets him go, wondering if he will retreat as he did once before while fervently hoping he will not. He stands, walking to the desk, but he doesn’t leave. Instead he turns to face her. Even by lantern light there is no disguising the nature of the emotions etched into the planes of his face – there is a stark hunger there, accompanied by a reverence she is not certain she deserves. With both hands he begins working at the fastenings of his armor, first the pauldrons, then the vambraces, and then the gauntlets. As he proceeds she cannot look away, does not want to. By the wavering light he strips his armor from him, until he wears the simple clothing she is used to seeing him in. He removes that too, quickly sliding his shirt over his head and letting it fall to the floor next to the heap of his discarded armor.

She wants to say his name and thinks that maybe she does as he strides back to the bed. He crawls over her and she gives way before him, until he is caging her with a hand on either side of her head. His kiss is not unexpected but astounds her regardless, so commandingly intense that she cannot help the muted noise that escapes her. Her hands are on his bare chest, sliding up the leanly muscled expanse, noting the way his breathing hastens as she does so. His hands are moving, too, fingers plucking at the laces of her dress with far more finesse than she would have anticipated given the situation. He achieves his goal, sliding his hand beneath the fabric to reach the sensitive skin beneath. His fingers skim the swell of her breast and she moans, surprised, against his mouth. It is clear he likes the sound and determined to hear more, he breaks the kiss to nip at the column of her neck.

It is a simple enough matter to shove the loosened neckline of her dress down, to expose her to his view. He whispers something in Elvhen and though she does not understand it, there is no mistaking the heated appreciation in the words. His head dips and then his mouth is on her nipple, tongue swirling, teeth teasing, until she clutches the back of his head with an impulse born of pure lust.

“Patience,” he chides softly, the word flowing hot over her moistened flesh. He switches his attention to the other breast and she utters something indecipherable, lost in a haze of pleasure. His hands do not remain idle – one travels down the length of her leg to find the hem of her dress and once found, he pulls it up past her knees until the fabric is bunched around her thighs. She is suddenly uncertain, oddly afraid, and she manages to partially vocalize her protest. “Solas… ”

His fingers are wandering; she feels them grazing her tender inner thigh and she shifts in mingled anticipation and need. He’s kissing his way back up to her mouth, teeth closing about her skin carefully, possessively. Suddenly his fingers are _there_ , parting her slick folds and touching her so skillfully that it is all she can do to remember to breathe. And long moments later, when he slides two fingers inside of her, she cries out and it’s his name that rises on the air, his and his alone.

She fumbles for his belt, wrenching at it so strongly that his breath escapes from him in a quiet _oomph._ It’s difficult, very difficult for her to concentrate with his fingers buried within her, withdrawing quickly only to slowly fill her again. She manages, somehow, to get his belt undone, and then to tackle the actual fastenings of his pants, and when finally that’s complete her hand lunges between fabric and flesh to wrap around the rigid length of him. His groan as she does so is the sound of a man utterly undone and she can _feel_ the way his body surrenders to her touch. She delights in this mastery over him, stroking him slowly, teasingly, until he slides his fingers out of her and catches both of her wrists in one hand, pinning them over her head. His eyes are narrowed in a pleasure haze that’s mirrored in her own.

“Are you mine?” he asks in a whisper.

She understands that there are multiple questions layered within this one. She gives the only answer she can, an answer for all of them. “Yes.”

“Swear it. Swear to me.”

There is an urgency in his voice that she doesn’t understand. It worries her. He reads her expression and shakes his head as though unable to find the words. He does, though, and they spill out of him in an impassioned plea. “I would have you belong to me now and forever, regardless of what may happen. Say it and swear yourself to me so that we are joined. Please, Boone–” His mouth descends upon hers in an attempt to persuade her beyond words, and he finishes his sentence a string of heartbeats later on a panting breath. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she whispers, feeling bold and frightened and impatient all at once.

“Always.”

“Always.” she confirms, and seals it with a kiss.

He moves, releasing her wrists and sliding between her legs, parting her thighs and she reaches down to wrap her fingers around the hard line of his erection. They work in fevered tandem, she guiding him until he partially embedded. Her hand falls away, coming up to clutch at his shoulders and she rolls her hips slowly, inviting him to continue. He acquiesces, setting a rhythm of thrust and withdrawal until he can go no further, until she tightens reflexively around him, her head falling back onto the pillow. He pauses in his movements and she opens her eyes, looking up at him with a bemused frown.

“Am I hurting you?"

“Solas.” The word somehow manages to sound both amused and unimpressed.

He smiles a little at that, but that smile fades into a look of unadulterated hunger as she shifts her hips, clenching around him. His head drops and she feels his lips at her collarbone at the same time that he withdraws only to plunge back hard, deep inside her, as deep as he can possibly go. Every snapping motion of his hips rocks her body and she tightens her hold on his arms until her nails are digging into his flesh. The coils of pleasure she has been experiencing are growing, carrying her within their swell until she crests the edge and then she is over, lost to euphoria unlike any she has ever known. She trembles with it, spasms with it, and he quickens his pace until, with one last forceful thrust, he follows her over that edge with a rasping groan. His hands are tight on her hips as he empties himself within her, his mouth covering hers so that she can taste the sound of his pleasure, so that she can share in it.

It is a long time later when he carefully pulls himself out of her, rolling to his side and pulling her with him. There is a fine sheen of sweat on both of their bodies and she shivers a little to feel a small draft of cool air against her back. He props himself up on one elbow and gestures in the direction of the hearth; she instantly feels the heat of a large fire. One corner of her mouth curves upward in appreciation.

He is limning spiral patterns on her skin with one fingertip, drawing ever closer to her breast. Once he reaches his destination his hand flattens, gliding over the curve until it rests directly over her heart. Her pulse is still laboring from the aftermath of their lovemaking and she wonders if he can feel it. She thinks he can, and covers his hand with hers. They do not speak. There is no need. For the first time since awakening here, she feels _whole._ She feels complete. And she wonders at the power of their attraction for each other that it could mend, even if for a time, something that had felt so insurmountable before. Perhaps Solas is the key to the full recovery of her memory. Perhaps he is her restoration.

**.x.**

They are lovers. And like all other lovers, they dwell firmly within the realm of their own happiness. Occasionally the concerns and worries of the world without intrude and when they do, Solas must leave. But he returns always, full of passion and craving and want, and he ensures that she does not doubt the way he feels for her – now, and forever.

“ _Ar lath ma,”_ he pants one night, his mouth by his ear as he takes her from behind. She knows enough Elvhen to understand what he’s said and it _changes_ her to know that he loves her as he does. She confesses her own love for him moments later on a throaty moan as he buries himself within her, as he spills inside her. And it is happiness she knows in that moment, loving and loved, and she thinks that only if her memories would return she would know what it is to live in complete perfection.

Weeks pass. Sometimes Solas seems pensive and withdrawn, though he always responds to her words and her touch. Sometimes he is desperate, falling upon her like a starving man, claiming her body with with such passion and devotion that it overwhelms her. She worries about him and says as much, but he avoids speaking of it openly, instead promising her that all will be well. Of course she must believe him.

Abelas begins to appear more and more frequently. He seems to bring with him some of the strife from the world beyond the valley. He and Solas argue from time to time. She dislikes being nearby when it happens and makes a point of taking a walk whenever Abelas arrives. One day she is returning from a foray to the nearest creek when she hears raised voices from within the house. She debates turning around but decides against it; she will wait for them to finish outside.

“ _Na melanas sahlim, Fen’Harel! Vir sumeil!”_

Her head snaps up at the sound of Abelas’ raised voice. It is not the tone or the volume – it is the words. Or more specifically, the name–

_Fen’Harel._

And it all comes back to her in a cataclysmal rush, the names and events and words that she had been made to forget. She is stock still beneath the onslaught, rendered immobile and mute, the deluge of memories bringing with them a stabbing, searing pain in her temples that keeps expanding outward. It was so very like him, to keep her isolated thus, so that she would never hear _that_ name, so that she would never recall just what was attached to it. And as true and full comprehension strikes her she is unable to keep the horrified, anguished cry from spilling out of her mouth. She is Evelyn Trevelyan. She is the Inquisitor. And he has _remade_ her into something else, into someone else, someone biddable, someone better suited to his manipulations–

And he had … and she had ...

The door to the house slams open and he is there, Abelas behind him. She stares at him with so many conflicting emotions that they knot in her throat, strangling her. Hot tears have slipped from her eyes, streaking her face and he sees them. He sees them and he knows what they are for and she watches as his expression contorts to reveal regret and shame so profound that he is staggered. He collapses against the door frame as she backs away.

This valley is no longer a pleasant background – it is a nightmare. There is nowhere she can run that he will not find her. It will not take much for him to right this mistake, to reset their lives to where they had been such a short time ago. It horrifies her beyond anything to know what has happened, to know what she has so unwittingly done. She had loved him before, loved him during his time with the Inquisition and even after that. But he had taken that love and twisted it – he had twisted _her…_ for them to become lovers naturally she could have accepted, but this … _anything but this!_

She is running. She is nearly blind for the tears and the panic and the despair but she runs anyway. She can hear his footsteps as he races after her and she swerves abruptly, spinning about to confront him with a sound very much like the snarl a cornered animal would make. He cannot stop himself in time and he slams into her, his momentum carrying them both several feet. She fights him wildly, fists flailing, kneeing him in the gut and experiencing deep satisfaction as he gasps explosively. Her left hand – the hand he’d created – connects with his jaw, snapping his head up and back. He stumbles and almost falls but recovers quickly.

“The promise,” she spits, her voice venomous and cutting, “the promise you made me swear – it was for this, in case your magic faltered and I remembered!!”

“Evelyn,” he whispers brokenly, wiping at the blood on his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I thought I was _Boone!_ ” Her howl rises, nearly ending on a scream and it carries throughout the valley, a sound of unholy rage. Her next words are low and swift, almost guttural in their furor. “Clever name to pick, selected from among the tales of my own childhood. You always were one for small details.”

He remains silent, throat working as he swallows hard. She sees the wetness lining his eyes and loathes him for it.

“ _What have you done, Solas_? What have you done to me?” She shakes her head, trying violently to dispel the knowledge of all that had happened between them since her memory had been taken. “It would have been better to kill me, and you _knew_ that… you told me that death would be kinder…”

“Evelyn…”

“You couldn’t love me as I was,” she says, voice catching on a sob. “You couldn’t love me for _who_ I was!"

She flings herself at him even as he shakes his head, even as he attempts to voice a denial. There is nothing he can say that will mend _this_ wound, this hole he’s ripped through her sense of self. He catches at her wrists as she strikes but she is too frenzied, too furious, and with her right hand she claws bloody furrows in his cheek. He wrenches her arm, twisting her around so that she staggers and falls. From the ground she glares up at him, panting heavily, with nothing in her eyes but cold, assured enmity. He sees this and recognizes it, closes his eyes against it. When he opens them again she is on her feet, stalking around him. She will attack him and keep attacking him because no other option exists.

“Kill me,” she tells him. “Kill me and mount my head on a pike, feed me to the wolves, _I don’t care_. But if you love me, if you ever loved me, don’t remove my memories again. Don’t make me into someone I am not!”

Yes, her death is an option. But it is not an option he can consider – not an option he ever truly considered.

“Or _please_ , take the memories of this place! Take them away forever and set me free. Let me go back to the Inquisition. Let us be enemies and nothing more. Solas,” she stops moving, her voice jagged and heavy, “don’t do this to me again, I beg of you. _Let me go_.”

His shake of the head is slow, weighted by too many emotions, too many regrets. She sees the truth in his eyes before he even speaks, each word wavering as it falls from his mouth. “I cannot.”

His eyes flare white even as she explodes into movement, leaping for him. One blink of the eye and she is suspended, motionless and mute. He avoids looking into her eyes because he cannot acknowledge with the condemnation he sees there. It takes two steps and he is before her, pressing his fingertips to her forehead, catching her as she falls…

**.x.**

She is awake.

Several slow blinks reveal that she is staring up at a roof hewn from white stone. She exhales, a sleepy sigh, and turns her head to find that she is not alone. A man sits next to the bed she lies upon, a man in nondescript robes. He’s bald and elvhen and wounded, she notes. There are three bloody grooves in his cheek. His expression is solemn. Oddly, she feels no fear to be this close to someone she doesn’t know, only a prevailing sense of restfulness and ease.

“What is my name?” she asks.

**.x.**

 


End file.
